


Please, my Shooter

by newd_japan



Category: All Elite Wrestling, Revolution Pro Wrestling, 新日本プロレス | New Japan Pro-Wrestling
Genre: Caretaking, Cuddling, Deathriders are cute, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:21:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22520932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newd_japan/pseuds/newd_japan
Summary: After mox yano g1 match as an alternative to whatever glorious hell that was @f00t wrote about that match
Relationships: Dean Ambrose | Jon Moxley/Umino Shota
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Please, my Shooter

“Shit man, Yano really gave us a beating. Not just to my body but to my pride!” Moxley growled, dragging Shota by his wrist. “I’m gonna beat that fucker up. I won’t stand for this! Getting my first loss to that clown.”  
“Uh . . . yes Moxley-san you will redeem your honour I’m sure,” Shota agreed.  
“And it wasn’t enough to beat me!” Mox continued. “He had to drag you into it and hurt my Shooter too! Damn it!” Shota startled. When did he get to be ‘my Shooter’? Oh well best not think too much about what Moxley said in this unstable state. Not that he ever seemed in a stable state exactly. “Hey come back to my room and help me clean up, my boy,” Mox demanded, slightly less indignant.  
“Ok Moxley-san.”  
“That’s a good lad.”  
They did not speak on the way to the hotel, Mox still fuming, and Shota afraid to provoke his erratic new friend. Inside his room, Moxley shut the door carefully, stared at it, then bolted it forcefully. “Yano is not getting in here,” he grunted.  
“I- don’t think he’d try to get into your room Moxley-san,” Shota said, slightly anxious about being locked in a room with the purveyor of violence.  
Mox flopped down on his bed. “Hey stop calling me that, just Mox is fine. Now go get some band-aids, they’re in the black bag on the sink.” Shota complied, bringing back a battered black bag with flecks of white on it as if some word or image had been scratched off. He wondered what it could have said, but didn’t want to bring up something that had obviously so angered Moxley. He didn’t have to wonder long, because Mox mentioned it up himself. “Damn I can still tell it used to say Dean Ambrose, I needa get a new one a these.” Shota just stood awkwardly at the side of the bed, knowing what a delicate topic this was. “I’d never have met you if I hadn’t got out of that hell hole,” Moxley continued, patting Shota on the arm. He took a band-aid from his young friend, who was feeling rather pleased that Mox was glad to have met him, and tried to apply it to his back. He winced as he felt for where the cut was and his blind fingers brushed over it the torn skin.  
“Here let me help,” Shota offered taking the band-aid from him. He walked back to the bathroom, wet a washcloth, and returned to wipe the blood off Moxley’s back. It was a small cut, but he felt his mentor deserved for things to be done right. The older man seemed surprised at this gentle gesture, and tried to grab the cloth protesting that he could do it himself. “No, lie down and let me help you,” Shota insisted. When had he stopped minding his role as this man’s personal servant? He’d even come to enjoy it sometimes. He rolled Moxley over to clean his chest and face as well. Shota could feel the man he had come to know as so guarded let his defenses down and relax into Shota’s touch. He smiled a little to think the violent loner might have a tender side. “There, all better!” said Shota, surprising even himself with how childish a thing it was to say.  
“Thank you.” Shota had never heard Moxley speak so softly. In fact, he had never heard Mox not raise his voice; he always seemed to be riled up about something. Mox sat up urgently. Ah here came that usual urgent spirit again. “Let me do the same for you.”  
“No no, it’s alright,” Shota soothed, pressing Moxley back down onto the bed, resisting his complaints that it was only fair. Shota leaned over, shushing quietly into Mox’s ear. Moxley pulled the young lion down to his chest, running a hand over his dutiful helper’s hair and wrapping the other arm around his back. Shota marveled at how strong his arms and chest were and yet so warm and soft: a body he’d rarely seen used for loving tasks and yet so comforting.  
“Then at least please stay here for the night, my Shooter,” Mox whispered. Shota closed his eyes and tucked his head under the other man’s chin. As he drifted off, he wondered how many people Mox said please to.


End file.
